


Begjære

by seashadows



Series: Lady Klok [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Tove WISHES this were femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tove Wartooth wishes Sigrid Skwigelf had feelings for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begjære

  
Sigrid Skwigelf is beautiful like the moon, like her name – pale and enchanting. People wonder why she’s in a band as gritty as Dethklok at all, for her looks more than surpass those of the pretty, plastic muscled boys and the made-up girls who throw themselves in her direction when she plays her guitar. Every year, she’s easily at the top of People Magazine’s list of most beautiful people – and yet she stays.   
  
She laughs it off, when Murderface or Pickles is drunk and stupid enough to ask, by way of a childhood explanation. “My mom, she was thinkings she hads a boy,” she says. “Ams a big disk-appointments. So she gots tons of boys-friend when she hads me, so I wouldn’st go off and thinkingsk I was so prettier thans her. Humbles me, _ja?_ ” She always flips her fair hair out of her face then, as if bored with the conversation, and leaves the questioner feeling a little better for the sheer pleasure of hearing her give her answer.   
  
Tove doesn’t think in those terms when Sigrid pops into her head, which, these days, is often. You don’t share a band with people without at least _one_ of them sticking in your head. Instead, she thinks in images, of Sigrid’s face – full red lips and enormous blue cat-eyes, a narrow Nordic nose, cheekbones that pop no matter what she does or doesn’t wear. Of her full breasts and long fingers, of her waist that nips in as sharply as that of a 1940s pinup. A _retouched_ 1940s pinup. She thinks of the mocking laugh that always seems to be directed at her, and of the way Sigrid tosses her hair whenever she plays guitar, and of the way she looks in her black-and-white makeup and skin-tight concert clothes. Leather. All that leather, and her legs go down to the center of the earth in it.   
  
She’s jealous, of course. Who wouldn’t be? Tove’s stomach is as hard and muscled as a bodybuilder’s, but she can’t get her muscular thighs to go thinner no matter what she does. Her hair is a boring color compared to her bandmate’s – even Nadia was born with a prettier shade, deep blue-black, and everyone knows Nadia doesn’t give a shit about how she looks, while Pickles and Sigrid and Willa fucking _Murderface_ are ginger or bright blonde or deep chestnut brown.   
  
Sigrid looks like the definition of a model. She’s prettier than all of them for all that Murderface is the most popular with alpha-male fans, round and voluptuous with tattoos that send the men into screaming paroxysms when she bares her belly onstage. _Pobody’s Nerfect_ – damn right. Tove couldn’t agree more. When she passes a mirror and sees the same snub nose and man jaw, too-pale eyes and mud-colored hair, she wonders if her parents’ god might be emotionally tormenting her after all. Maybe the long days of standing in as Aslaug and Anja’s never-born son, enduring the beatings and chores he might have taken had he but been real, hadn’t been enough.   
  
Yet Tove wants – oh, she wants her. Not Pickles’s lanky runner’s body, not disgustingly curvy Murderface or Nadia with the build of a hardened soldier, only with big knockers. Only Sigrid, always Sigrid, and when Sigrid levels her a glare and calls out “Hey, Toki!” – a never-forgotten nickname stemming from an incident with Pickles’s marijuana, one that no one lets her live down – “Toki, you gets your dildo-fuckers ass overs here and does that guitars right! No ones care if you ams on your poriods again,” she can only smile and follow.   
  
“Ams comingsk, Miss Complainers,” she always yells back, and re-plays her guitar for the thousandth time, heedless of her raw fingers and ringing ears. Any second spent with Sigrid is a second too long, and infinity too short.


End file.
